


Bulletproof

by messageredacted



Series: Impossible Worlds [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where’s the fun in robbing a bank if you can’t take hostages?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written 21 May 2009.
> 
> Illustration by [Mathia Arkoniel](http://mathiaarkoniel.com/), commissioned by [tehopheliac](http://tehopheliac.livejournal.com/). Thanks for tehopheliac for giving me permission to put it in the fic!

The bullet catches him in the chest with rib-cracking force and Batman feels the air go out of his lungs all at once. He drops back behind the counter, flattening one hand against his chest, trying to drag air back in.

In the back of his head, he can hear Lucius’s voice talking about kinetic energy, how the bulletproof panels of his suit stop the bullet from piercing his flesh but they still hit with the force of an eight gram piece of copper-coated lead flying fourteen hundred feet per second, which, spread across the width of his breast plate, means a bullet hits him with the same force of someone hitting him in the chest with a sledge hammer. He’s lucky he didn’t crack a rib, although honestly if he can force his lungs to draw in a breath he’s going to be pretty goddamn happy.

Bullets splatter into the marble floor like water in hot oil, flinging chips of marble into his face. He hears one of the guns stutter to a stop, empty, and then the crack-slap of a new clip being slammed into place. The other gun continues in an extravagant waste of bullets, arcing over the walls and windows and counter, effectively holding him in place.

“Don’t waste all your bullets on one little bat,” drawls a voice from somewhere out of sight on the other side of the counter. “There are other cops in the sea.”

“There wouldn’t be cops here if you hadn’t taken the _fucking hostages_ —” one of the gunmen snaps, on the edge of hysteria.

Air rushes back into his lungs all at once. Batman sucks it in, staring out across the chewed-up expanse of marble floor. There’s a dead hostage on the floor by the far wall, his face turned away from Batman. The cheerful posters on the walls with pictures of savings bonds and personalized credit cards have been torn to shreds by the rain of bullets.

The other gun stops, not empty but waiting. Batman runs his hands over his belt. Handcuffs, grappling gun, three tear gas canisters and an empty spot where he used the fourth. He yanks out another canister, pulls the tab and throws it, already flinging himself in the opposite direction, towards the other counter that’s nearest the far door. He can’t escape yet because there are two more hostages to save, but he can’t stay pinned down where he was, either.

One of the gunmen shouts and there is a spray of startled bullets, not towards him, thank god, but towards the tear gas can. Batman reaches the far counter and spares a glance towards the three bank robbers.

The two gunmen wear black clothes and ski masks and hold semi-automatics. One of them has drawn a skull on his ski mask in silver marker. At their feet are the two hostages, duct tape wrapped around their mouths, wrists and ankles. Batman briefly gauges whether they’re still alive, then turns his eyes up.

Squatting up on the teller’s counter is the Joker. He doesn’t bother with the black clothes and the ski mask. He doesn’t even have a gun. He is digging under his fingernails with a hunting knife.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” the skull-faced gunman says, coughing and wiping at his eyes. “There wasn’t supposed to be any cops and hostages and _Batman_.”

The Joker looks up from his knife. “Where’s the fun in _robbing a bank_ if you can’t take _hostages_?”

“The money, douchebag,” says the other gunman.

The Joker stands up, one hand touching the ceiling over his head. For a second he turns his head to the side and his eyes meet Batman as if he knew he was watching. From across the room his eyes look black as a sparrow’s eyes, glossy and blank. He smiles, and then he drops down to the floor.

“Kill the Batman and I’ll give you my half,” he says.

“Half?” exclaims Skull Face. His gun swings up towards the Joker’s chest. The Joker’s arm snaps out like a striking snake, getting a fistful of the guy’s ski mask. His knife digs into the flesh under Skull Face’s jaw, settling there. Skull Face’s Uzi presses against the Joker’s breastbone.

“Try it,” snarls the Joker. “Just try it.”

The other gunman takes a step back from the both of them. Everyone is breathing hard. Batman edges around the counter, looking down the length of the floor to the two hostages. One of them, a man, has his eyes squeezed shut. The other, a woman, is watching the gunmen with wide eyes.

Batman takes out his grappling gun and aims it steadily, waiting.

“I’m not going to shoot you,” Skull Face says shakily. “On the count of three, okay?”

The Joker smiles at him, his eyes heavy-lidded.

“One,” Skull Face says, easing his finger off the trigger. “Two. Thr—”

Blood jets sideways as the Joker cuts out his carotid artery. Skull Face chokes, raising the gun again, but the Joker knees him in the gut and he bends in half, folding like wet paper. His blood sheets the floor, half his blood volume gushing out in three beats of his heart. He’s gone before he hits the floor.

“My half,” the Joker says breathlessly to the other gunman.

“Holy shit,” says the gunman, taking another step back.

Batman pulls the trigger. The recoil jolts his ribcage, sparking pain. The hook lashes out and hits the Joker in the thigh with an audible thump. The Joker twists away, grabbing at the cable as if he’s going to yank it out. Batman braces himself against the counter and hits the switch to retract the cable. The cable goes taut and then the Joker hits the ground and starts sliding.

The other gunman opens fire on Batman. Batman rips the tab and flings another tear gas canister at him. The Joker hits the other side of the counter and hangs on. The grappling gun is yanked from Batman’s grip. It reels in to slap against the Joker’s leg. The Joker rolls over, away from Batman, and yanks the barb of the grapple out of his thigh. Blood spills.

Batman scrambles out from behind the counter, slipping on the marble floor. He grabs the back of the Joker’s shirt and yanks him backwards. The Joker’s back slams into Batman’s chest and Batman slings one arm around the Joker’s neck, the other around his waist.

The Joker twists in his grip like an angry cat, one of his hands flailing backwards with the hunting knife. It catches the edge of a plate of armor and digs in.

Something flashes in the billowing smoke and Batman realizes belatedly that the gunman is shooting at them even though he can’t see. Bullets crack into the counter over their heads.

“Tell him to stop shooting!” Batman shouts at the Joker, trying to drag his struggling weight back behind the counter.

“He doesn’t work for me, sweetie,” laughs the Joker, working the knife deeper under the plate of armor. Batman feels it reach his flesh, just a scratch across his side. He unreels one arm from the Joker’s neck and slams the heel of his hand into the Joker’s wrist. The Joker hangs onto the knife, driving the crown of his head back into Batman’s chin. Greasy green hair slaps his face. He hits the Joker’s wrist again.

Something hits Batman hard in the chest again and Batman grunts involuntarily as his bruised ribs protest. The Joker drops the knife and then Batman feels the heat running over the arm he has wrapped around the Joker’s waist. His brain makes the connection—that was a bullet that hit him in the chest, and it went right through the Joker to get to him.

Another bullet clips a plastic tray over their head, sending deposit slips flying. This isn’t going _anywhere near_ according to plan. Batman rolls them over, covering the Joker with his body. Something kicks him in the back of his thigh, and another bullet slams his forearm.

“Stop shooting!” Batman screams over his shoulder. The Joker is laughing underneath him, clawing for the knife again, still holding onto the grapple gun. Batman knocks the knife away, sending it skidding across the floor, and then hoists the Joker up and heaves him behind the counter.

Behind the counter, the Joker twists around, a grin on his face, his voice a rasp. “ _That’s_ your p-plan? To _sh-shout_ at him?” His shirt is soaked through with blood.

“Shut up,” Batman growls. He hears footsteps coming towards them and the Joker’s eyes focus over his head. Batman flings himself forward, pinning the Joker to the floor, when the gun stutters again. Three bullets hit him in the back. This time he can hear his ribs crack. A bullet hits the marble next to his head and the Joker cringes away from it, pushing his face into Batman’s collarbone.

“Why don’t you fucking _die_?” the gunman shouts. The Joker yanks one arm free from Batman’s grip and raises the grappling gun.

Something hits Batman in the back of his head, hard. It feels like a shovel but it’s probably a bullet. His face bounces off the marble floor, the mask absorbing only some of the blow. His vision fizzes out for a second like a bad television.

The Joker rolls them both over and Batman flails, feeling like his skull is going to slide apart. Somewhere, fuzzily, he thinks of the gunman and tries to roll them back over but the Joker easily holds him down, straddling his chest.

“My dark knight,” the Joker snorts. “Took a bullet to the head just for me.”

Vision returns slowly. He has a bad concussion, he can tell. It’s going to make escaping that much more fun. He blinks a few times, clearing his vision.

The Joker reaches down to Batman’s belt and takes the handcuffs. He picks up the key, shows it to Batman, and then flings it over his shoulder. It clatters somewhere across the room. He closes one cuff around Batman’s wrist.

“The police will come in any second,” Batman says. His voice sounds distant to his ears.

“Look.” The Joker drags up the hem of his shirt, showing a pale, muscled belly and a raw bullet hole, still gulping blood. “I think that bullet was meant for you.”

Batman’s eyes fix on the wound. It doesn’t smell like ruptured intestine, but if he keeps bleeding like that, he’ll be unconscious soon.

The Joker closes the other cuff around his own wrist. “Let’s wait for the police together,” he says, the scarred corners of his mouth curling up.

With effort, Batman hoists himself up onto his elbows. His head swims dangerously but he forces himself to focus. The police can’t arrest him. He can’t allow that to happen.

“Not today,” Batman says, pushing the Joker off his chest. Behind him, on the floor, the other gunman lies with a grappling hook in his eye. Batman gets his hands and knees and then pushes up to his feet, pulling the Joker up with him. The Joker staggers a little and it’s almost ridiculous, the two of them moving drunkenly across the bank floor. The hostages are watching them in fear.

“The police will come in soon,” Batman says to them. When he bends to take the grappling hook from the gunman’s face, he nearly falls over. The Joker sways against him. Batman regains his balance, pulls the hook free, and then looks towards the glass doors where the police are waiting.

He turns away and pulls the Joker towards the back door. The police will be waiting there, too, but all he needs is enough time to shoot his grappling gun into the sky. There will be bullets, but he can handle it.

“Where are we going?” the Joker asks, his voice starting to slur. Batman clamps his arm around the Joker’s waist, pulling him tight against his side. He readies the grappling gun, and then raising his foot to kick the door open.

“We’re going to fly,” he replies.


	2. Painkiller

Batman’s grappling gun pulls the two of them up to the rooftop of the building next to the bank. He slings the Joker over the edge onto the roof and then climbs up after him. Their wrists are cuffed together, which makes it awkward.

The Joker rolls onto his back on the gravel of the roof, gasping out a laugh. “They all saw you help me escape,” he says. “The incorruptible Batman—” He coughs wetly “—and _me_.”

Batman doesn’t reply, squatting next to him. The entire front of the Joker’s shirt is black with blood, sticking to his stomach. They need to stop the bleeding.

“They’ll have a police helicopter here soon,” he says. “We need to get out of here.”

The Joker tips his head back, looking upside-down towards the edge of the roof. “Or you could just _turn yourself in_.”

Batman looks down at his utility belt. He has one tear gas canister left. The handcuffs are attached to his wrist, and the grappling gun is in his hand. None of them are terribly helpful.

He leans in and delves a hand into the pocket of the Joker’s coat. The Joker rolls his head around and looks at him, his mouth pursed. “No touching,” he says, but he makes no move to stop Batman.

There are two knives in that pocket, and three in the other. Nothing else. Batman confiscates them, then takes the edge of the Joker’s jacket and digs into it with the knife, tearing off two long strips.

“Give me your hand,” he orders.

The Joker narrows his eyes at him. “No.”

Batman grabs for his other hand. The Joker twists away and they roll over once, then again. It sends angry shards of pain from his concussion throbbing through his skull. Vindictively, he thumps the Joker in the stomach and feels the Joker stiffen, curling up around the wound, inexplicably laughing in short, pained gasps. Batman grabs his hand and then roughly ties his wrists together with one of the lengths of fabric.

“You fight dirty,” the Joker giggles.

“It’s for your own good,” Batman replies.

“Hah.” The Joker looks at the other strip of fabric. “What is _that_ for?”

Batman doesn’t answer. He wraps it around the Joker’s eyes, blindfolding him. “Trust me,” he says. “Now hold your breath.”

“What—?”

Batman yanks the tear gas canister out of his belt and rips off the tab. The Joker seems to recognize the sound and drags in a deep breath, then holds it.

Smoke fizzes and sprays around them, clouding the air immediately. It’s faster than he expected, and his eyes start to water immediately. He can feel the heat of the canister through his gauntlet, hot enough to burn if not for the rubber protecting his flesh. He holds his breath and pulls up the wet edge of the Joker’s shirt, exposing the wound. It looks bad.

He leans forward and presses his empty hand over the Joker’s mouth, then pushes the hot canister against the wound. Flesh sizzles and the Joker lets out a cry into Batman’s palm, his back bowing. Batman counts to three, then pulls the canister away. The flesh around the wound has blackened and blistered but the bleeding has stopped.

“Roll over,” Batman rasps, using up some of his precious air. The Joker painfully rolls over, taking Batman’s cuffed wrist with him. Batman rests his hand lightly on the back of the Joker’s head in a silent apology.

The exit wound on the back is much worse. Batman knows bullet wounds—knows that when the bullet hits the flesh, it transfers its kinetic energy to all of the internal organs it meets, punching them out of the way as it passes through, temporarily making a fist-sized tunnel through the flesh. When the bullet exits the other side, all that pent-up kinetic energy spews out with it, leaving an exit hole several times the size of the bullet. The Joker is lucky it missed his spine. Batman presses the canister against the wound, hearing it sizzle. After a couple seconds, he throws the canister across the roof, where it continues to pour smoke.

“Now get up,” Batman says, wrapping an arm around the Joker’s shoulders and helping him up. The Joker reels, sucking in air. “We just have to make it two blocks.” They stagger forward, moving towards the edge of the roof. The Batmobile will be waiting for them.

  


* * *

  


The re-circulated air of the bunker floods into the Batmobile as the canopy slides open. Batman leans over and pulls the blindfold off the Joker.

The Joker squints in the fluorescent lights, his eyes struggling to focus. The corners of his mouth turn up and he starts to laugh. “This is what you call h-home sweet home?” he asks between snorts. “Sh-should’ve known that this was your sanctum sanctorum. _Cold cement and fluorescent lights_.”

“Come on. I need to stitch you up.” Batman tugs sharply on the handcuffs. The Joker lets his tied wrists flop on the other end of the cuffs, unresisting. Batman sighs and leans over, wrapping an arm firmly under the Joker’s shoulders. The leather seat peels away from the Joker’s blood-soaked back.

“Up,” Batman orders. The Joker sluggishly helps and they get out of the cockpit and onto the floor of the bunker.

Batman supports most of the Joker’s weight as he guides them to the case where his extra suit and supplies are kept. There is another set of handcuffs there, and another key.

“Spoiling the fun so soon,” the Joker mumbles, sounding vaguely disappointed. Batman uncuffs himself from the Joker.

“Over here.” Batman keeps a firm grip on the Joker’s tied wrists, pulling him towards a long, stainless steel table where he does some of his work. He clears boxes from the table and helps the Joker sit on the edge. He pulls over the tray of medical implements that Alfred has thoughtfully cleaned and left out in case of emergencies. The Joker pulls his legs up onto the table and lies down, looking queasy. Batman picks up a bottle of Percocet and shakes out two pills into his palm.

“I don’t like pills,” the Joker says, eying them.

“It’s just a painkiller.”

The Joker smiles, blinking slowly. “Rather be in pain.”

Batman hesitates, then sighs and puts the pills back into the bottle. His own skull is throbbing but the Percocet will make him muddled and he can’t let down his guard while the Joker is here. He puts the pill bottle back on the tray and then frowns at the rest of the medical supplies. This is going to require more than his sloppy stitching.

He hits the button on his computer array to page Alfred. “Alfred, I need some help.”

“Dogs again, sir?” Alfred’s voice returns dryly.

“Worse. Could you come over here? I have the Joker. He’s been shot, and he needs medical attention.”

There is a pause. Batman has to give Alfred credit when all he says is, “Right away, sir.”

“Thanks.” Batman releases the intercom and turns back to the Joker. The Joker is curled on his side, his eyes closed. His clasped hands are pale.

“He’ll be here soon,” Batman says. He goes back to the tray of medical supplies and takes out scissors, cotton swabs and rubbing alcohol.

The Joker opens his eyes again and looks over his shoulder when Batman moves behind him and starts to cut his shirt and jacket off of him. His eyes, Batman has never noticed before, are bottle green in the light.

“My shirt has buttons, y’know,” the Joker says.

“They’re too small for my gauntlets,” Batman replies honestly. The Joker stares at him for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth turn up.

“So take them off!”

Batman doesn’t answer. He cuts the shirt up the back all the way to the collar and bares the Joker’s back. His vertebrae and ribs are clearly delineated, stretching his skin tight as a drum.

He pulls the shirt and jacket down the Joker’s arms to bunch around his bound wrists, leaving his entire torso bare. Then he picks up the cotton swab with tweezers and begins to clean the wound with alcohol.

At the first touch of the alcohol on the wound, the Joker lets out a hiss. His eyes fix somewhere on the far wall.

“I can get you a painkiller,” Batman offers. The Joker doesn’t respond. His breath comes shallow.

Batman starts to reach out and rest his hand on the Joker’s shoulder, then stops, realizing his gauntlets are bloody. He peels them off, tossing them to the floor, and pulls on latex gloves instead. When he rests his hand on the Joker’s shoulder, he can feel the heat radiating off him. Gunshot wounds always bring a fever.

He cleans the blood and dirt off the wound methodically. When the alcohol touches the wound again, the Joker lets out a breath, and tagged on the end of the breath is the faintest sound, almost a moan. Batman freezes.

The Joker doesn’t move at all, still staring at the far wall, his breathing ragged. The lights buzz overhead. The glaring white light makes everything seem clinical and obscenely exposed. He can see the fingermarks of greasepaint at the Joker’s jaw where his makeup ends and flesh begins. He can see faint blond stubble at the edge of his neck.

He realizes that he is still gripping the Joker’s shoulder. He releases it, flexing his hand and shaking out the phantom feeling of hot flesh against his palm.

Everything is suddenly surreal. Why is he letting the Joker manipulate him like this? He should have insisted on the painkiller, rather than inflict pain on a helpless, wounded man. The Joker must know that the guilt is making him soft.

He marches back over to the tray and lifts up the bottle of pills. He takes two out again.

“Something wrong?” the Joker asks quietly, his voice a little slurred.

“You’re taking these pills.” Batman approaches him, holding them out. The Joker turns his face away.

“No, I’m not.”

“Alfred is going to come and stitch you up, and I refuse to let you go through that in pain.” Batman grabs the Joker’s chin and the Joker rolls onto his back. The bottle of alcohol drops to the floor and starts to empty. Batman scowls and pulls the Joker’s face towards him.

“How sweet,” the Joker chokes out. “Thinking of my needs.” He closes his mouth when Batman tries to push the pills into it.

“Open your goddamn mouth,” Batman snarls, pinching the Joker’s nostrils shut. The Joker tosses his head but Batman doesn’t let go. The Joker’s eyes roll back and then he makes a sound in his throat, a pained noise, jerking his bound wrists. Batman looks down and sees the Joker digging his fingers into his own bullet wound.

Batman lets go of the Joker’s face, dropping the pills and grabbing at his hands. The Joker sucks in air shakily. His fingers are painted red with blood. He doesn’t resist when Batman pulls his bound hands away from his stomach, the torn shirt and jacket still bunched around his wrists. His hands are shaking.

Batman stands and stares down at him, watching the Joker’s heaving chest, slick with sweat. His back is still slightly arched, his head tipped back. He’s wheezing a laugh.

“Look at you—” he gasps. “Trying to— save me from— myself.” He coughs, then adds, “Wow,” in a slightly surprised voice. Batman realizes he’s referring to the pain. His body is still trembling.

“Why do you want to be in pain so much?” Batman asks harshly, feeling strangely angry. “Why do you want me to hurt you?”

The Joker catches his breath and tips his head forward to look at Batman. His eyes are heavy-lidded and he smiles. “Because it’s _real_.”

“What do you mean?”

The Joker closes his bloody hands around Batman’s latex gloves. His hands, too, are hot with fever. “What I see? What I hear? I don’t know that all of that is real. But I know I got shot because I _feel_ it.” He brings Batman’s hands down to his stomach again. His stomach quivers under Batman’s hand.

“I could have told you that you got shot,” Batman says, trying to keep his voice even. He realizes that his breathing is slightly quick, as if he’s been running. The Joker is still watching him with those strange green eyes, still smiling.

“How do I know to trust you?” the Joker asks.

“You can trust me,” Batman answers quietly. Something changes in the Joker’s eyes, something that he can’t really read. He tightens his hands around Batman’s, pushing it against the wound, and Batman can feel the thrum that goes through the Joker’s whole body, the shuddering white-noise of pain, almost as clearly as if it were himself in pain. Something tightens like a piano wire inside of him, hot and shivering. Distantly his mind tries to identify the feeling and he pushes all that away.

The Joker lets go of his hands and props himself up on his elbows. He tilts his chin up to Batman and reaches out one hand. Batman steps forward without thinking, his hand still flat against the Joker’s stomach, and then their lips are together, slick with greasepaint.

The Joker’s tongue is a hot triangle pressing into his mouth. All Batman can see are blurry slits of green still watching him intently. The Joker’s hand cups the back of Batman’s head, bringing him closer for a wet, sloppy, desperate kiss. He starts to sit up and Batman helps him, and then the Joker’s other hand is coming up to his neck and somewhere in the back of his head alarm bells are going off and in a brief moment of clarity Batman thinks _his hands should be tied—_

Cold steel digs into Batman’s neck, pressing against his carotid artery. Batman’s mind briefly goes blank as he thinks of the bank robber earlier, his throat cut, blood jetting. The Joker pulls back from the kiss and smiles at him from inches away.

“I don’t think you’ve got quite the—heh— _grip on reality_ you think you do,” says the Joker, his eyes crinkling in mirth.

_He took a scalpel from the tray_ , Batman thinks. _I should have been paying attention._

The Joker holds up the pills that Batman had dropped on the table. “Time for a taste of your own medicine, sweetie.”

Batman keeps his mouth closed, staring stonily ahead, his mind racing. The slightest wrong move and the Joker can kill him. He doesn’t have anything on him, nothing to use as a weapon. The Joker laughs.

“Remember the bank? Remember what I did to that poor little man? Take the pills.”

Batman hesitates, then opens his mouth. The Joker pushes the pills inside.

“If you were crueler, you would have thought of this yourself,” the Joker says conversationally. “Open wide and show me.”

Batman opens his mouth. The Joker smirks, then leans in and kisses him again, pushing his tongue into Batman’s mouth. It feels wrong now, where it didn’t before. And looking back, the fact that it _didn’t_ feel wrong before makes Batman feel vaguely uncomfortable.

The Joker pulls back. “Found them,” he says in a sing-song, sticking out his tongue. The pills are on the tip of his tongue. “Swallow them this time.”

He kisses him again. This time Batman swallows the pills. The scalpel is a firm, unwavering line against his neck. It would take seconds to bleed out. All this armor and he let the Joker get close enough where armor doesn’t matter.

“You’ll die,” Batman says against the Joker’s lips. “If you don’t get medical attention—”

“And you’ll die.” The Joker smiles, planting a soft kiss on the corner of Batman’s mouth. “ _If I dig this knife into your throat_.”

They stand there for a second, staring into each other’s eyes from inches away. His ears are ringing faintly from the concussion and his mind is running around in circles. _I could call his bluff. He said life wouldn’t be interesting if I were dead. But just because he doesn’t want to kill me doesn’t mean he won’t._

“Take off your mask,” the Joker says.

“Take it off yourself,” Batman croaks.

“I know it’s booby trapped.” The Joker shifts his grip on the knife, pressing it harder against his throat. Wetness trickles down the edge of his cowl.

_I could wait until he bleeds out. It shouldn’t be that much longer, right?_

“Take off your mask,” the Joker says again.

If he still had the gauntlets, he could shoot the Joker with the scallops on the arm, or shock him with the electric charge that he uses to erect his wings. But no gauntlets, just latex gloves. He’s used everything from his utility belt, and there aren’t any weapons in reach.

He takes a deep breath and then lets it out.

“Cut my throat,” he says.

The Joker blinks at him for a fraction of a second, startled. Batman slams his face forward, drilling his forehead into the Joker’s nose and grabbing for the scalpel. The Joker doesn’t stumble back as he expects, but rather hunches and plows forward into him, shoving him bodily backwards.

Batman’s hand closes on the blade of the scalpel and the Joker twists it, cutting into the meat of his palm. Batman swings a hand out behind him, grabbing for the display case with his extra supplies, but his hand passes through empty air. The display case is four feet to his right. The percocet, combined with his concussion, is making his judgment fuzzy. He drops and sweeps out a leg.

The Joker crashes to the floor but rolls with it, alighting in a squat, the scalpel out. Batman lunges sideways for the display case and snatches up the first thing his hand comes into contact with—a batarang.

The Joker lunges and he wings it, grabbing for something else from the shelf. The batarang clips the Joker in the arm, not exactly the shot he was going for but from the way his head feels now, he’s lucky he hit the Joker at all. The next thing he comes up with is a spare gauntlet. He triggers the scallops and they explode out, two thumping to lodge in the Joker’s chest, three clanging somewhere against the far wall.

Then the Joker is on him and they’re rolling, and the scalpel is darting in again and again like a snake, and he feels it slash across his cheek, and then it finds the same familiar spot against his artery—

“Take off your mask,” the Joker says between gasps of air.

“Fuck you,” Batman replies, breathing hard.

The Joker smiles and leans in.

“Drop the knife and back away from him right now. I assure you, I’m a crack shot,” comes a serene voice from the far end of the room.

Alfred.


	3. Caretaker

“I can do this all day,” Alfred says into the echoing silence of the bunker, holding his gun level. “But I would guess that you cannot.”

The Joker’s eyes flicker over him, gauging him with an animal intensity. Alfred meets his gaze steadily, unflinching. The Joker is a terrible man, but a man all the same, and Alfred knows how to deal with terrible men.

The Joker drops his head to look down at Bruce, green hair swinging down in a curtain to hide his face. Alfred stays on edge. This man is unpredictable. Holding someone at gunpoint only works when that person _cares_.

The moment stretches and then the scalpel clatters to the floor. The Joker lifts his head again, smiling benignly, shaking his hair back from his face. He knocks two of Batman’s gauntlet scallops from his chest and then raises his hands into the air, still straddling Bruce. Alfred spares a moment of worry when Bruce doesn’t knock the scalpel away but instead lies flat on his back, breathing slowly.

When the Joker straightens, Alfred can see the raw wound on his bare back. He grits his teeth. A wound like that should have the man prostrate, not wrestling Bruce for a scalpel. Not for the first time, Alfred pushes away the idea that the Joker is no mere man.

“Get off him,” Alfred orders, not moving from where he is. “Stand up.”

The Joker unwinds himself from Bruce’s body and gets to his feet, planting a palm on Bruce’s chest-plate to steady himself. Bruce grunts and Alfred flicks a glance to his tight expression. Broken ribs, most likely. And it’s not likely that the Joker is unaware of them.

“Move to the center of the room,” Alfred says when the Joker is standing. He eyes the tray of surgical tools. “Away from the table.”

Bruce sits up gingerly. The Joker takes a step out into the open part of the room and then sways. Alfred sees Bruce’s head snap up to watch him.

“Lay on the floor on your stomach and put your hands behind your head,” Alfred orders. The Joker takes another step and then stumbles, his legs folding like origami. He crashes to the floor on his hands and knees and then curls forward, pressing his forehead to the floor.

“On your stomach,” Alfred says, but the Joker doesn’t seem to hear him. Alfred steps forward and directs his voice towards Bruce, not removing his eyes from the Joker.

“Alright there?”

Bruce presses a hand to his chest, blinking into the middle distance. “Yes,” he says. “I think I…” There is a long pause. “Percocet,” he finishes abruptly.

Fan-bloody-tastic.

“We need to restrain him,” Alfred says to Bruce. It’s unfortunate that they don’t have anything stronger to put the Joker out but they’ll just have to make due with what they have.

Bruce gets to his feet and moves towards the case with the spare supplies. Alfred steps slowly around the Joker’s prone body, staying out of reach of any sudden lunges. The Joker’s face is slack, eyelids shut, but Alfred has no intention of letting his guard down.

Bruce returns with two sets of handcuffs and exchanges a glance with Alfred. Alfred takes a step back, keeping the gun trained on the man on the floor. Bruce reaches out with his foot and pushes the Joker none-too-gently in the ribs, knocking him on his side.

The man sprawls, apparently unconscious. He rolls half onto his back, one hand outflung. Batman steps around him and snaps one of the handcuffs on the wrist, then drags him to a sitting position. The Joker remains limp, even when Bruce hoists him up into his arms to carry back to the table.

Alfred keeps watch as Bruce uses both sets of handcuffs to cuff his hands to either table leg, keeping him on his stomach to expose the exit wound. Muscles slide under his skin as Bruce manipulates his limbs into position.

When he is finally restrained, Alfred puts the gun down on the display case and then drags the tray of surgical tools closer to the table, still keeping it well out of the Joker’s reach. He runs through ‘what happened’ and ‘what were you thinking’ and ‘are you _insane_?’ before settling on a diplomatic, “What’s the plan?”

Bruce stares muzzily down at the Joker, whose cheek is resting on the cold metal surface of the table, his eyes closed.

“Save his life and turn him in,” he says after a pause to collect his thoughts.

Alfred relaxes minutely. At least they don’t intend to keep their new charge for long. “I imagine the surgeons at Gotham General could do a damn sight better than me.”

“Can’t bring them here,” Bruce says, smiling faintly. “Can’t bring him there.”

Alfred hesitates. “He could die on the operating table,” he says delicately.

Bruce looks up at him and his expression is almost chilling. “I took him from a crime scene, Alfred. He needs to face the law. If he dies, that won’t happen.”

Alfred allows himself a moment to imagine it anyway, then sighs and reaches for the local anesthetic.

For the next quarter hour there is silence except for the metallic clinks of tools on the tray, the hum of the overhead lights, and the tick of the Batmobile engine cooling at the other end of the room. The Joker’s breath fogs the slick surface of the table, enough to tell Alfred that he’s still alive.

Bruce reaches out and touches a comma of old scar tissue between the Joker’s shoulder blades. It’s hard to tell what exactly caused it—a knife perhaps. It is a rare identifying mark for this nameless man in front of them.

“Is he going to live?” Bruce asks into the silence.

“I’m afraid so,” Alfred returns.

Bruce nods once. Alfred has known the man since he was just a child but it is hard, sometimes, to see what he’s thinking. Bruce moves away from the table, picking up a discarded gauntlet from the floor and pulling it on. He picks up one of the scallops from the floor, reattaching it to the gauntlet, then casts about for the final missing scallop.

“He’s set for travel,” Alfred says, peeling off his gloves and stepping back from the table.

“I can take care of it from here,” Bruce says, straightening up.

Alfred doesn’t move. “No, I don’t believe you can.” Bruce stares at him and Alfred meets his gaze calmly. “If I may say it, sir, you are high as a kite.”

Something moves in Bruce’s eyes and he smiles. “You noticed, huh?”

Alfred nods to the Tumbler. “To the Batmobile, sir?”

“To the Batmobile,” Bruce agrees. He bends down and picks up his other gauntlet.

Alfred unlocks one of the Joker’s hands from the table leg, then moves around to the other side of the table. He reaches for the other set of handcuffs, and even as he does it, he sees the Joker’s eyes open.

There isn’t time to let out a sound. The Joker rolls up onto one elbow, his back to Alfred, and brings his free arm swinging powerfully backward, hand clenched in a fist. It slams into Alfred’s chest and something sharp slices his collarbone, just missing his neck. Alfred staggers backward, clutching his collarbone, and the Joker slides off the table, already grabbing for the dropped handcuff key. There is a bloody scallop in his fist.

“He’s—” Alfred manages to choke out. Hot blood spills down his neck. Alfred presses his hand over the pumping blood, trying to gauge the damage he can’t see. If the blade hadn’t caught on his collarbone, it would have skidded right into his throat.

The Joker’s other hand comes free of the cuffs as Bruce grabs Alfred and pulls him away, situating himself between them.

“Where were we?” the Joker purrs, stepping to the left. Bruce moves to keep himself between him and Alfred, blocking Alfred’s view of the man. Alfred eyes the tray of surgical tools, which is on the other side of the table. Luckily the Joker seems to have forgotten it’s there, as he’s moving steadily in the other direction. If Alfred can get to it, he can bandage himself before he loses too much blood, and then—

His chest suddenly clenches with cold horror. The Joker is moving away from the tray of knives, it’s true—and _towards_ the gun.

The realization seems to click in Bruce’s head at the same second, because he lunges forward. The Joker darts backwards, quick on his feet, and reaches out for the display case. Bruce slams into him just as his hand closes on the gun.

The two of them crash to the ground and start to struggle together, a vicious thrashing of limbs as they fight for the gun. Alfred scrambles back towards the table and ducks behind it, grabbing for the roll of gauze and tape to staunch his bleeding neck.

There are three quick gunshots in a row and Alfred flinches, holding his breath, a prayer on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know what he’s praying for.

The two men roll over, still struggling. Bruce’s fist connects with the Joker’s jaw. The gun goes off again and this time Alfred sees Bruce jerk back. The Joker plants a foot in Bruce’s chest and shoves and Bruce sprawls backwards. The Joker pounces on him in an instant, pressing the barrel of the gun into his cheekbone.

“How are the pills treating you?” the Joker asks in a breathless whisper, smiling down at Bruce. “They’re a bitch, right? See why I didn’t want them?”

Bruce says nothing, his breath whistling in his throat. His ribs must be hurting under all that abuse. Alfred winces in sympathy.

“Between me and you, I think you should hire better help.” The Joker doesn’t look over at Alfred but his smile widens as if he knows Alfred is watching. “This one’s a little past his expiration date, eh Brucie?”

He raises the gun away from Bruce’s cheek and points it at Alfred. Bruce lets out a roar and shoves the Joker’s arm away, deflecting the shot into the ceiling. They roll again and Bruce slams the Joker into the ground, pinning him. The Joker presses the gun to the flesh under Bruce’s jaw.

“You—” Bruce wheezes. “How did—”

“Brucie,” the Joker repeats, drawing out the word. “Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce sits back, letting go of the Joker’s shoulders. The Joker props himself up, still holding the gun to Bruce’s jaw. “I don’t go to those high society shindigs very often, but I _never_ forget a face.” He tips back his head and winks at Alfred.

“Are you going to tell?” Bruce asks quietly. The Joker looks back up at him and doesn’t respond. Something seems to pass between the two of them then, a shared look that Alfred can’t understand.

“Let me walk out of here,” the Joker says.

“I can’t do that,” Bruce replies.

“I’ll put a bullet in your skull.”

Bruce’s expression smoothes into something serene. He lets his palms rest face-up on his knees, unresisting. “Then do it. Shoot me. No more Batman. No one to come running when you take hostages in a bank.”

The silence lengthens. The Joker wets his lips, the only sound in the entire echoing room. Alfred presses his palms together, waiting for the shot.

And then, in the silence, the Joker reaches out and takes one of Bruce’s hands. He presses the gun into it, folds Bruce’s fingers around the trigger. He turns the barrel and presses it against his own head.

“I’m not going back to Arkham,” he says.

Bruce’s grip firms on the gun but he doesn’t pull the trigger. The Joker lets his own hand drop, sitting propped up on his elbows, staring into the gun.

“If you don’t, I will,” Bruce says.

The Joker’s expression goes blank, and even Alfred blinks in confusion. Bruce smiles a little at the reaction.

“I am not above the law. If I let you die right now, I’m taking away the chance for justice to be served. And if I do that, I’m a criminal vigilante who dresses up like a bat.” He leans forward, his voice going lower, almost intimate. “ _And I will walk into Arkham to turn myself in_.”

The Joker watches him, his eyes rising from the barrel of the gun to Bruce’s face. He meets Bruce’s gaze and then, without a word, he raises his hands.

  


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End file.
